


Absolution

by ContraryToEverything



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anger, Angst, Gen, Hurt, Metamorphmagus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContraryToEverything/pseuds/ContraryToEverything
Summary: Harry Potter's new ability allows him to see a new side of Severus Snape.  But does he really want to know what lies beneath the surface?





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I'm not making any money off this story. 
> 
> Warnings: assumed knowledge, slightly OOC characters, AU
> 
> I feel like this story isn't particularly unique, so if there is another story that is similar, it's purely coincidental

 “Lily.”

 

Harry didn't know why he responded to the name.  True, it was a ‘name’ he had given to this version of himself (Lilian, if one wanted be exact), this foreign feminine body with dark red hair, delicate features, and hazel-green eyes.  But people didn't typically respond to names that weren't their own, so why Harry faltered mid-stride in the stretch of torch-lit corridor, his grip tightening on the strap of his book bag, he couldn't really say.  No one had ever called him Lily before.  If he had any sense, he would have kept walking. It was near curfew.  He had no reason to stop.

 

Perhaps it was that silky and sonorous voice that so often promised trouble (“ten points from Gryffindor”), or at least detention.  The sort of low voice that one couldn't help attuning their ears to (“bottle fame, brew glory”), even when the words spoken were cruel and crushing, mocking and derisive.  It was a voice that engendered his resentment, that reminded him that this was one of the people he hated most in the world.

 

Harry should have kept walking.  Instead, he turned his head, each second achingly drawn out, every instinct warning: ‘danger! danger!’ and still, he was turning, eyes wide as he caught sight of sallow and sickly skin looking almost jaundiced under the torch light, framed by a greasy curtain of shoulder length black hair, and draped in swaths of flowing black, a creature of the shadows, of night. And if Harry had seen what he had expected (scorn, hatred, disgust) in those onyx eyes, his feet would have moved before his mind, as fleet as a deer, trusting the twists and turns of the corridor to protect him, trusting that he would have time to throw his invisibility cloak over himself as he ran and ran, back to the safety of gold and red, of caring and sympathetic friends.

 

But what Harry saw in Professor Snape's eyes had not been anything that he could have foreseen, anything he could have imagined, and that immobilized him more than any spell could have done.

 

 “Lily,” the professor repeated, a long fingered hand slowly raising, reaching out, tentative, and oddly graceless.  And this time, the voice wasn’t quite so silky and smooth.  This time, the way the name had been spoken was like something unwillingly ripped out of his throat, shattered and broken by the time the sound parted from thin lips.

 

Harry swallowed, wondering why his throat felt constricted (fear?  loathing?), wondering why Snape was looking at him like that, like the man had seen a ghost (and not a castle ghost, not anything like Nearly Headless Nick or the Fat Friar or the Bloody Baron, no). There was something about seeing Snape like this, something horribly aberrant and perverse, akin to walking in on the man while he was doing something private, like brushing his teeth or taking a bath (and did Snape even do either of those things? Oh, but Harry didn't even want to consider it, no, no, it was awful, something appalling to ruthlessly scour from his mind, disgusting, wrong).

 

It was as if the Snape that he knew had had his face ripped away, as if someone had made use of Polyjuice Potion to create a facsimile of his features, while having no concept at all about the man beneath, contorting the eyebrows, eyes, mouth, cheeks, _everything_ into an expression that didn't belong, because nothing about the Snape that Harry knew fit what he was seeing. Surely this was a dream, wasn't it?  Perhaps a trick of the torch light?  Perhaps a bizarre and inexplicable prank courtesy of the Weasley twins?  Harry didn't wait to find out.  Before Snape could say that name ( _her_ name, his own mother’s name) once more, Harry's feet had caught up to the wild staccato of his pulse, and he ran.

 

-o-

 

Metamorphmagus.

 

After combing through the various tomes and books in the library, it was the closest description that he had found. He didn’t act with a Hermione level of meticulousness, but if she had known that he had willingly stepped foot between those dusty parchment-and-leather scented aisles, she would have been proud, which would have been a tad mortifying.

 

Metamorphmagus: a witch or wizard with the ability to change their physical appearance at will, rather than requiring Polyjuice Potion or a spell like the rest of the wizarding population.

 

It wasn't exactly right.  Yes, Harry could change his physical appearance at will, but he could only change it to one thing: a girl with dark red hair down to her shoulders, pale skin, and eyes much like his own, almond-shaped, except shot through with slivers of hazel.

 

Harry had been given a photo album of his parents by Hagrid, and though he had only seen pictures of his mother when she was older, he thought that he resembled her; perhaps a younger version of Lily Potter (Lily Evans, then?) So few photos of her existed that he had studied each of them time and time again, heart stuttering at the way his parents’ eyes would crinkle, flashing teeth in wide and unself-conscious grins, love written across their faces.  Harry would trace his fingers over the smooth planes of the images, wondering what it felt like to feel warm skin, and affectionate touches.  To feel loved.

 

Of course, he wasn't entirely sure that he did resemble her.  Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, one more tenuous thread of connection for him to desperately grasp at, knowing that he had so few connections at all. He had named this alter ego of his, Lilian, in honour of her (but also because it was ruddy difficult to think of a girl’s name, and he certainly wasn't going to go by Harriet, or anything like that). But whether or not Harry's other face (and other body) had a name didn’t really matter.  No one knew of Lilian.  Not Ron. Not Hermione.  Nobody.  Lilian was his secret, his opportunity to be someone ordinary, to merely be another face in Hogwarts’ ancient halls. Lilian did not attend classes, did not watch Quidditch games, did not have friends or foes, did not have to think about the Triwizard Tournament.  Lilian was _free_.

 

And it had been startlingly easy for him to adjust to sometimes being a girl.  After all, as a boy who had spent the first eleven years of his life living with in a cupboard, being treated like an indentured servant, being beat up by his cousin, being denied food, it was almost natural that he’d disconnect from his own body. It wasn't his body that could unlock the cupboard.  It wasn't his body that offered any reprieve.  No, it was his mind, his imagination where he had found his escape (until the Hogwarts acceptance letter and Hagrid came along).

 

The strangest thing about being a girl was his hair (always swinging everywhere, getting in his mouth), his gait (it was _weird_ , walking without his bits between his legs), and his voice.  There was something utterly disconcerting about the boyish voice in his head transmuting into the girlish voice coming from his mouth whenever he transformed.  Mostly, he tried not to speak.

 

He did not change into Lilian very often.  Only when being Harry Potter became too much.

 

-o-

 

Harry had been afraid that once he ran away from Snape, the other man would follow.  In fact, the professor needn't have even followed - he needed merely to raise his wand and utter a spell, in low and lazy tones ( _Petrificus Totalus_ , _Stupefy, Locomotor Mortis, Colloshoo, Immobulus, Incarcerous_ \- really, there was a world of possibilities). This didn't occur to Harry until later, of course, once he was ensconced in his four poster bed, curtains drawn, while his pulse slowed, his skin cooled, and his mind gradually reasserted itself (admittedly not very effectively), as Ron’s worried voice called out: “Harry?  Mate?  Is everything all right?” He must have made the proper excuses because Ron eventually left him alone.

 

His mind had been very busy dousing the flames of his emotions (‘What if he knew?  What if he takes away House points?  What if I’m expelled?  Oh god, I’m doomed!’) The efforts of his logic had been rather piddling, so that no matter how many times he reminded himself that no one knew of Lilian’s connection to him, his fears would charge over his reasoning, stomping about with all the care of an overwrought dragon.

 

It wasn't until after a night of fitful sleep, and nebulous dreams about dungeon bats, that he could really think.  That, and the fact that Snape had paid him no heed when Harry had slunk into the Great Hall for breakfast, eyes smudged with darkness, and lips pulled in a grim line, the face of a boy walking towards the gallows. It had been Harry’s intention to act as inconspicuously as possible, head down and focused on his rashers of bacon and his toast. He hadn't intended to cast surreptitious glances towards the High Table (which seemed like tempting disaster, but the Gryffindor in him was too strong).

 

But because Harry had been peeking towards the High Table, because he was studying Snape the way a circumspect buck might study a lone wolf, he noticed certain details that might have escaped his attention, had he been his usual self (talking Quidditch or classes with Ron and Hermione, or scowling at Malfoy’s smirks).

 

For one, Snape looked as exhausted as Harry was, the circles under his eyes stark against pallid skin, his black hair shadowing his face more than usual, shroud-like and gloomy, and if not for his obtrusive nose, he would have made a passable dementor. For another, he did not carry his usual aura of sharpness, the sort of feeling that gave one the sense that nothing went unnoticed.  And finally, Snape’s eyes looked hollow, for lack of a better word (though Harry hoped it was merely his imagination, that he couldn't possibly be seeing that emptiness past Snape's greasy curtain of hair).  If Snape couldn't fully pass as a dementor, then he at least looked like a man who had been kissed by one.

 

And once Harry fully shed all the worries he felt for his own skin, he was able to step back from his situation, and really consider it.  ‘Lily,’ Snape had said.  Lily.  It hadn't been Lilian.  It hadn't been ‘Lily?’  it was just ‘Lily.’  He had even said it twice, and while Harry might have brushed off the first utterance of the name, he couldn’t brush off second.  A shiver rippled down his spine, and the more he considered it, the more perturbed felt.

 

For a moment, he considered mentioning the bizarre encounter to Ron and Hermione. Ron's convictions about Snape (so very like his own had been - no, still were) would surely right his sense of imbalance. Hermione’s level-headedness and quick reasoning would have already offered a list of rationalizations for Snape's strange behaviour, or at least there would be promises of research. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he struck it out.  If he were to tell them about his encounter, he would have to tell them about Lilian as well, and that was something he was still unwilling to share. Having the support of his friends would be nice, but he didn't need them for everything, and especially not for this.

 

Lily, he had said.  It meant that Snape had known his mother.  But of course, with the way Snape spoke of his father, it shouldn't have been a surprise that he would know his mother as well, only, Snape never spoke of his mother before, had he. Of course, they must have known each other while they were at Hogwarts, but his mother had been a Gryffindor while Snape had been a Slytherin.  Why would they have been anything other than passing acquaintances? In that case, Snape should have used her surname.  But he hadn’t done.  Lily, he had said, and he had said it in a way that suggested -

 

Harry shivered again. He didn't want to remember the way Snape's voice slid over the sound of his mother's name.  He didn't want to remember that haunted look in Snape's eyes.  Because Snape had said ‘Lily’ in a way that suggested a certain intimacy, and there was no way that his mother would let a slimy snake anywhere near her, would she?  The notion was unthinkable.

 

Harry wanted answers.  Harry _needed_ answers. And he knew just the person to ask - someone who had been there, during those years at Hogwarts so many years ago: his godfather, Sirius.

 

-o-

 

Patience wasn't one of Harry's strengths. He had sent Sirius a letter with Pigwidgeon (since Sirius was still in hiding and Hedwig was too conspicuous), but he had yet to hear back from his godfather. But that didn’t mean he was about to sit back and idly twirl his quill as he waited. There were others who had known both his parents and Snape when they were younger, those numbers including Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall.  As much as Harry trusted and looked up to Dumbledore, he didn't feel comfortable approaching the Headmaster about this matter.  He didn't feel comfortable about approaching McGonagall either, but she was also his Head of House, and one of her duties comprised of speaking to students about their troubles, whether academic or personal, didn't it?

 

He ended up dithering in front of her office, debating whether or not to knock on the door, when it suddenly swung open, taking the decision out of his hands.

 

 “I could hear you pacing outside, Mr Potter,” came McGonagall’s voice (and was that amusement he heard?) “Come in.”

 

He sat himself down in one of the straight-backed seats, taking in the decidedly tartan-themed decor, and the sight of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team practicing outside the window.  After accepting an offer for tea, Professor McGonagall asked: “What can I help you with, Mr Potter?”

 

He worried his lower lip, hands encircling the tea cup as he stared at the steam rising up out of his Earl Grey rather than meeting McGonagall’s eyes.  He wasn’t afraid of her, nor was he particularly uneasy about the topic of conversation, but Professor McGonagall had never been the sort to invite confidence.  It wasn’t like speaking to Ron, Hermione, or Sirius, or even like Professor (ex-Professor now) Lupin.

 

 “Well, actually, I wanted to ask you about my parents, Professor.”

 

 “Oh?”

 

He ran his thumb along the gold-gilded edge of the delicate china.  “And about - erm - Sn- Professor Snape.” He hesitated, glancing up to gauge her reaction, but there was only a brief flicker of surprise before she composed her expression. “They - that is, I know my dad and Sn- Professor Snape weren’t close, but my mum - well -” He peered up at her again.

 

Professor McGonagall’s expression was troubled, deep lines bracketing her mouth, and Harry wished he could understand what the look meant.

 

When McGonagall didn’t speak, he prodded:  “Were they - Professor Snape and my mum -” he was about to say ‘close’ but it sounded too ambiguous.  Instead, he blurted out: “friends?” As soon as the word left his mouth, he blinked.  They couldn’t have been _friends_.  Why had he even asked that?

 

Eventually, she answered, sounding almost reluctant.  “Yes.  For a time.”

 

Harry felt his eyes bulge in shock, his jaw dropping. “What?”

 

 “They were inseparable during their early years.  It was unusual, even all those years ago, for a Gryffindor and Slytherin to be close friends.”

 

 “My mum - and Snape?”  he stuttered out, realizing it wasn't the most coherent answer, but he was still reeling.  McGonagall, lips compressed into a thin line, merely nodded.

 

 “Friends?” somehow, he had injected even more incredulity into his tone of voice.  McGonagall nodded again.

 

 “What happened?  Wha - why?” As the muscles in his hands twitched and tightened, he realized he was holding fine bone china between his hands and released the cup, laying his palms on the table.

 

McGonagall frowned, deepening the lines on her face, and said: “I'm afraid that isn't my story to tell.  If you wish to know more, you'll have to ask Professor Snape.”

 

 “But -”

 

Seeing the look in Professor McGonagall face, he knew he would get nothing more from her.  But he would get even less from Snape; he was sure of it.  With more questions than ever before, he thanked her and left her office.

 

-o-

 

Learning that Snape and his mother used to be friends had done nothing to improve Harry's feelings towards the other man. If anything, it had sparked an angry fire within him, not because he objected to someone like Snape befriending his mother (as distasteful as the notion was), but because Snape had been close his mother, and yet still persisted in treating Harry with unbounded cruelty. Why?

 

It drove him mad that he didn't have the answers. Sirius still hadn't replied to his owl, and he wasn't about to interrogate Dumbledore for answers. As riled as he was, his curiosity had not abated.  He wanted answers, and as much as he hoped that Sirius would have them, he had a feeling that he would need to hear the explanation from Snape's own mouth.  He could hardly ask Snape as Harry Potter. Snape loathed him, seemingly as a matter of principle. But Lilian?  Could it work?  Did he dare speak to the dour professor as Lilian (or Lily, as Snape imagined her?)

 

The thought of subterfuge caused a twinge of conscience, but only a minor one.  This was Snape.  And his encounter with the ill-tempered man had been long enough ago that the emotional impact had been mostly forgotten, and the look in Snape's eyes, the sound of his voice, felt like a distant dream.

 

Besides, Harry wanted more than answers. He wanted a change.  He didn't expect Snape to ever treat him with kindness.  That was as ridiculous as wishing to defeat Voldemort by lobbing puffskeins at him.  No, kindness was too much to ask for but perhaps, if he made use of Lilian just so, he could effect a change, and have Snape treating him as just another student to more or less ignore.  The more he considered it, the more it seemed like a brilliant idea.  Brilliant enough that he was tempted to transform into Lilian then and there, and stride off purposefully towards the dungeons in search of the Potions Professor.  Fortunately, as much as Snape might have doubted his good sense, Harry did have _some_ (all right, perhaps he could have done with a little more, but still!)

 

Instead, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map, unveiled it’s lovely secrets, and searched out the dot labelled ‘Severus Snape.’ In the past, he only noticed Snape’s dot as a warning, as something to avoid. Now, he needed to learn the man’s habits and patterns, and use them to his own advantage. And if he played his cards right, it could be quite an advantage indeed.

 

-o-

 

 “Severus.  Severus.  Severus.”

 

Harry was treading through one of the corridors alone, practicing saying the name, because he couldn’t imagine his mother as the sort who would call people (friends) by their surnames, and given the chance to act spontaneously, he knew he’d end up spitting out ‘Snape.’  It felt strange, both thinking and saying it, as if he was crossing some line of propriety, and doing something forbidden.  Only, it was an unpleasant sort of forbidden, not the more delightful kind that the Weasley twins might favour.  It was a sibilant name, that slid smoothly off his tongue.  It was an easy name to say.  The difficult part was the man himself, and knowing that it was _his_ name.  The use of a person’s given name felt far too intimate, and the thought of himself and Snape sharing any degree of _that_ made him feel more than a slight bit nauseated.

 

And what if his mother hadn’t even called him ‘Severus?’  What if she called him ‘Sev?’  Oh Merlin.  At least he had a plan (well, the barest sketch of a plan - he was a Gryffindor!  Not a Ravenclaw).  It was just a matter of carrying it out.  Tonight.

 

After extensively monitoring Snape’s behaviours using the map, he learned that the man was a bit of an insomniac who tended to wander the halls of Hogwarts at night, typically following a set of paths from the dungeons, in a spiraling(ish) loop up to the seventh floor.  He alternated up and down the towers, taking the Astronomy Tower one day, then the Bell Towers, then the Clock Tower, then the West Tower, then the North Tower, and so forth.  More than once, Harry had wondered whether Snape’s overt reactions to that first encounter with Lilian had been the product of a sleep-deprived mind.  It was more than possible.

 

It had ruined Harry’s sleep, of course, to learn this pattern of Snape’s, but Harry always took a certain degree of pleasure in watching the map, and he had been able to get away with napping in some of his classes (such as History of Magic).  And now that he did know Snape’s pattern, he could say that he felt a certain degree of pride as well, a sense of accomplishment.  If only Ron and Hermione knew how carefully he was acting!  Of course, he couldn’t tell them.  Shame, really.

 

His plan was to accost Snape as Lilian when Snape was descending one of the towers, and that was how he found himself (herself?) outside the Gryffindor Tower, dressed in his school robes (which were far more appropriate for Lilian than his over-sized and torn ‘pyjamas’), his invisibility cloak safely folded away in his pocket for if he should need it, though at this time of night, so late that most were probably not yet dreaming, he was unlikely to encounter anyone else.

  
The night air was cooler than he expected, but anticipation had made him restless, and he paced the floor by the North Tower, the movement keeping him warm enough.  He suddenly froze.  Did his mother used to pace?  It was strange to consider in this body, his red hair swishing around him.  Pacing was so mundane, so commonplace, and it occurred to him that he had never considered his parents doing commonplace things.  He had never witnessed them making tea, never knew if they tapped or twirled their wands (or kept them tucked away), never learned if they played with their hair, or touched their chins when they ruminated, or all manner of other little gestures.  It made him feel empty, and even with their likeness in his face and form, he did not know them any more than before.

 

 “Lily.”

 

The name halted him (her?) in his steps and he turned towards the voice, blood pounding in his ears.  Snape was descending the tower stairs, his footfalls all but soundless, which explained why Harry hadn’t heard him, why he had been caught off guard yet again.  But now, the Potions professor was still, as if any motion would dissolve the surreal scene.

 

 “Severus.” It was a miracle that he didn't stumble or stutter over the syllables, the name pouring out of him as smoothly as cream.  Better yet, he didn't flinch at the sound of his feminine voice.  He had barely managed to speak above a whisper, and he was afraid that he would have to repeat himself.

 

But no, Snape had heard him. It was clear in the way that those black eyes widened, the way those thin lips parted (only slightly, but considering that this was Snape, it was equivalent to seeing the man’s jaw drop). Harry's plan had been rather amorphous at best, and had mostly consisted of how he could arrange another meeting without bringing disaster upon his head (such as causing Gryffindor to fall into negative house points).  He hadn't known his mother, and couldn't have planned how to act.  In truth, his plan could have been summed up as: ‘meet Snape, ask my questions in his little words as possible, and get out of there.’

 

 “How are you here?” Snape asked, low voice breaking over the words, and a universe of bewilderment (and hope?) in his eyes.

 

Harry knew he should have expected questions, but he hadn't, and his mind stumbled to find an answer. But then it occurred to him that he had no obligation to answer any questions, and if Snape was displeased or suspicious, he would run. He wished, then, that he had known his mother better, if only to be able to capture her mannerisms, but his pulse was still drumming and his palms were sweating, and he found himself clutching his ropes, squeezing the fabric as if the wool could offer some reassurance.

 

 “Lily?” Snape took a tentative step towards him, and Harry’s eyes widened, as he took a step back in turn.

 

 “Don’t!”

 

Harry's eyes widened further when he realized that Snape had obeyed. The entire situation beggared belief.  For a heartbeat or two, he wondered if he had angered Snape, and steeled himself for the vitriol that he was accustomed to.  But no aspersions were forthcoming. Instead, Snape looked hurt, but how was that even possible?  Once again, he was besieged by the feeling that he wasn't looking at Snape, but instead was facing an imposter.  It was tempting to rip out the Marauder's Map, if only to confirm that the man before him was who he appeared.

 

He couldn't meet Snape’s eyes, couldn't bear to be assailed by the sight of such naked emotions on another person's face. His own emotions were becoming a churning mess, and unlike Snape, Harry had never been much good at masking his feelings. His eyes were drawn to a flash of white, and he saw that Snape's hands were curled into fist, so that not only his face but his body betrayed the rawness of his feelings.

 

For a moment, Harry had a sense of committing a wrongdoing, of a line being crossed, but he recalled himself to his purpose.  Answers.  That was why he was here. He had written out a list (and wouldn't Hermione be proud?) but now, trapped in the present moment that he was, the list was forgotten.

 

Instead, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, a hint of accusation in his voice: “Why are you so mean to Harry?  He’s my -” (it was a miracle he didn’t choke on the word, the lie), “-son.”

 

Even under the scant light of the torches, he could see two spots of dull colour appearing on Snape's face, and Harry felt his nausea rising once again, the sense of having seen too much, of being exposed to a sight that was never meant for him. He felt like some twisted voyeur, peeling off another man’s skin and flesh to witness the beating heart beneath. It was sick. (‘I am sick.’)  It was wrong.

 

 “He’s nothing like you,” Snape rasped.

 

The words were like a slap and left Harry feeling stricken.  

 

He knew that he had his mother's eyes, but he wanted to think that he had more than that, that even if she was no longer in his life, he still carried something of her.  He wanted to deny, to protest, but the fact was, Harry hadn't known his mother, while Snape had, and the resentment he felt swelled up yet again, as his grip on the fabric of his robes tightened.  But what frightened him most was, what if Snape was right?  Snape had known her, while Harry had not.

 

As if mistaking Harry’s tight-lipped silence, Snape continued: “He’s arrogant, intellectually lazy, insolent, abusing his celebrity status and Quidditch abilities  -”

 

 “No!” Oh, how Harry wanted to argue.  How he wanted to throw the words back in Snape's face, and heap on his own condemnation.  Snape didn't even know him!  But then, his mother didn't either, and knowing that was like a spear piercing his own heart, a reminder of his own terrible loss.

 

His pain must have shown on his face, because Snape was saying her name again: “Lily,” the two syllables laden with a lifetime of emotion.  And silence that followed was bloated with rancor, a bitter taste in the throat.

 

Snape seemed to deflate. “Let’s not speak of Potter.”  He let out a world-worn, life-worn sigh, before letting their eyes meet once again. “Lily, I - I’m sorry -”

 

Regret?  Was that the look in Snape’s eyes?  Intuitively, he sensed that those words weren't meant for him, for Harry Potter, and he wanted to cry: ‘For what?  What did you do to her?  What did you do to my mum?’ He was so ready to assume the worst. And he would have done, except a flicker of the torch light caught the dark red of his hair, reminding him that he wasn't Harry, he was Lilian, and it wasn't loathing or malice in Snape’s eyes but remorse, oceans worth of it.  Harry was in no position to deal with it, no position to pull apart another man’s ribs and uncover what lay beneath.

 

He wasn’t afraid, but he was confused and so he turned and ran, hearing the name “Lily!” called out once more, just as raggedly, just as awful (so that Harry almost felt as if he had somehow wronged the other man, mercilessly gouging into old wounds with blind abandon), but there was no time to consider it because there were tears in his own eyes, Lilian’s tears, though he did not permit them to fall.  There was something dreadful about knowing that Snape knew his mother better than Harry ever could, and he found himself wishing for a mother that he never knew, and the life that he would never have.  Wishing that he had never encountered Severus Snape at all.

 

-o-

 

Harry dreaded a worsening antagonism between him and Snape after his meeting with the man, though if he was lucky, his situation would remain unchanged.  Speaking with Snape had only solidified his awareness of Snape’s deep-seated antipathy towards him, adding new dimensions to the ‘why’ of his rancor. Snape didn't merely hate him because of Harry's resemblance to his father; just as much, it seemed that Snape hated him because of how distant he was from his mother, from her character, and considering how others tended to speak of Lily, with a glow of warmth and admiration in their voices, it didn’t make Harry feel very confident in who he was.

 

Ever perceptive Hermione had noticed Harry’s subdued behaviour, of course, but it was easy to divert her worries by claiming preoccupation with the Triwizard Tournament. And the fact of the matter was that Snape did change, beyond Harry’s wildest hopes.

 

Harry had trudged into the Potions classroom that week, defensiveness already gathered around him like a protective mantle, expecting the usual derision and scorn. He sat down in his usual place next to Ron, a glare already fixed upon his face, but all the animosity he had dredged up was a wasted effort. Certainly, Snape seemed like himself, with his blatant favoritism towards the Slytherins, and his snide remarks and disdainful sneers towards the Gryffindors, only, it seemed that this time, Harry was excluded from being a Gryffindor.  Harry was excluded from being anything at all.  It was as though Snape didn't even see him, as though Harry wasn't even worth the attention, and by the time the students were filing out of the classroom, he was filled with a numb sort of amazement, peering over his shoulder back towards the professor’s desk, as if some strange error of fate had occurred.

 

He felt a burgeoning elation, knowing that it might be premature, but nonetheless, Lilian had done more for him than he could have ever hoped.  Remarkably, the pattern continued. Aside from having to worry about the Triwizard Tournament, his academic life had never been so peaceful.  Before long, all he ever had to worry about was Hermione nagging him about studying and homework.  And without the threat of losing house points, without the threat of being humiliated in front of the entire class, Potions became a tolerable subject.

 

Eventually, Harry received a reply from Sirius. The letter had been brief, like so many of Sirius’s letters these days, and Harry felt a pang of worry for his godfather. Here he was, fretting about Snape's behaviour (and considering that Snape was ignoring him, that was downright friendly), while Sirius was still on the run, facing unknown troubles while he tried to help Harry with his problems.

 

Besides, Sirius hadn't offered very much insight in the end, other than to say that Snivellus and Lily had met each other before Hogwarts, and that Lily had made the best decision of her life by ending the friendship. Just as his conversation with McGonagall, Harry found himself with more questions than answers.

 

During Harry’s last meeting with Snape as Lilian, Snape had said: ‘I’m sorry.’  Harry should have asked what he was sorry for.  Whereas in the past, his eyes had skittered away from the ugly professor, as if hatred made the very act of looking at him unpleasant, now, Harry's eyes sought him out.

 

At first, Snape had appeared like his usual self, sullen and withdrawn, black eyes ever alert for trouble, always seeing the worst in everyone who wasn’t a Slytherin.  But the more that Harry observed him, the more he realized that his picture of Snape wasn't quite right. He cursed himself for not paying more attention before.  Harry wasn’t quite certain what measure of Snape he could use as comparison.  The dark blots of skin under his eyes seemed permanently painted there, and the pallor of his skin wasn’t getting worse, was it?  It was difficult to discern different shades of paleness, and all he could say for certain was that Snape looked terrible, even beyond his typical ill-graced features.

 

Harry wasn’t quite sure what he felt about it.  Surely not guilty. And most certainly not sympathetic. He was able to convince himself that he was looking for signs that weren't there, that certain features about Snape which he had been insensitive to before were now salient, but meaningless.  The loss of appetite?  Well, Snape had never looked like the sort who gorged himself.  The absence of asperity directed towards Gryffindors in the classroom?  Well, his words were as biting as ever.  Something like his tone of voice was probably subjective anyway.  And Snape's insomnia?  The fact that he haunted the spots where he had had his encounters with ‘Lily?’  Well, why was Harry even checking the Marauder's Map in the first place?  It was only making him sleep deprived, and it was probably a hallucination borne out of his exhaustion-addled mind.

 

He didn’t care.  He abhorred Snape.  Didn’t he?  The idea that he might not hate Snape made him feel groundless, lost, as if he didn’t quite know who he was anymore.  It made sense to hate someone who abused him, someone who only ever saw the worst in him, or saw a false representation of him.  It didn't make quite so much sense to hate someone who didn't acknowledge his existence, who acted with an almost chilling detachment, as if the past three years of their history hadn’t meant anything (but it did!  It did!)

 

And then there was the (small) voice of logic telling him that his endeavours were pointless, that there was no reason to keep scrutinizing Snape (expect in a general mistrustful way), that his mission was complete and he could focus on more important things (like the Triwizard Tournament, the Yule Ball - and Merlin, who was he going to ask?! - and of course, Voldemort).  That was until -

 

 “Has anyone else noticed that Professor Snape has been - erm - different?” came Neville’s voice across the Gryffindor table during their lunch in the Great Hall.  Neville lowered his voice, as if even from this distance, Snape would be able to pluck his words from the din.  “Less - erm - scary?”

 

Harry froze, with his fork halfway to his mouth, his steak and kidney pie forgotten. And with all the subtlety of typical Gryffindors, all the fourth years who had heard Neville's remarks (excluding Harry) looked towards the High Table before returning their attention to their lunches.

 

 “Yes, actually,” Hermione agreed, with another hesitant glance towards the professor in question. “He's been acting differently for a while now.”

 

 “What do you mean?” Ron demanded. “The git just took twenty points from me the other day!”

 

 “He took five from me in the hall,” Dean interjected.

 

 “Yes, but haven't you noticed that he's been taking points off for legitimate reasons?” Hermione pointed out.  “He took points off you in Potions, Ron, because you very nearly put an emperor dragonfly into your cauldron instead of an Azure damselfly, and could have endangered the whole class!  He used to take points off for far more trivial reasons -”

 

Ron rolled his eyes, not bothering to swallow his food as he said:  “You mean for unfair reasons?”

 

Hermione pressed her lips together reprovingly, but didn't deign to answer Ron's question nor chide him for his questionable table manners. Instead: “The point is, Neville's right.  Professor Snape has changed.”

 

 “Still treats his slimy snakes better than anyone else,” Ron muttered.

 

Harry's friends continued to speculate, but without his own voice to add fuel to their theories, which ranged from reasonable (“it's probably just stress”) to outlandish (“the old bat is probably plotting something evil, and wants us to lower our guard”), the fourth years eventually grew weary of bandying the topic around. But not Harry.  Long after his friends had forgotten about the matter, Harry was thinking about it, and no matter what the voice of logic claimed, he realized now that the matter was far from over.

 

-o-

 

 ‘I'm not going to go check,’ Harry thought as he sat up in bed, pushing the heavy duvet off of himself.  The night air was gravid with inky darkness and a sharp chill.

 

 ‘I'm not going to check,’ Harry thought, as he reached for his wand.  It was even colder outside the bed curtains, arctic air creeping over exposed skin.

 

 ‘Maybe just a quick look, then I'll go back to bed,’ Harry thought, as he rummaged through his belongings and pulled out the Marauder's Map.  The night air was frigid enough to give him goose-pimples, but he hardly noticed his shiver.

 

 ‘He's there,’ Harry thought. ‘Probably insomnia again.’

 

 ‘Well, I'm awake now.  I'm not going to be able to fall back asleep.  I might as well.’ He slipped into his shoes, absently rubbing his arms for warmth.

 

 ‘He won't see me.  Not with the invisibility cloak.’  He wandered the nights so often it was practically a habit.

 

 ‘I won't transform into her.’ He pulled his school robes over his pyjamas.

 

 ‘I really should just go back to bed.’  He was already past the portrait.

 

 ‘I don’t care about him.’ He already knew Snape’s nocturnal routes.

 

 ‘I’m just curious.’ The feeling pulled at him like a tether.

 

 ‘It probably has nothing to do with her.’ And yet, Snape's dot on the map tended to linger in the spots where he had seen Lilian.

 

Harry's thoughts blinkered him to his surroundings, and it seems like only brief moments later that he found himself at the base of the North Tower, where he had last encountered Snape.  He knew from the map that the man would be here, and yet, he was still surprised by the sight of him, sitting on the stone steps, elbows on his knees while his head was cradled between his hands.  The slump of his posture, the deep and shadowed lines on his face, the stillness all conveyed a terrible air of defeat.

 

 ‘I should be glad.  After the way he treated me -’ He tried to muster his anger, to steep himself in old (and not so old) injustices.  There was no shortage of injustices.  There was, however, a distinct shortage of anger.

 

 ‘What does he have to say for himself?  What is he sorry for?  Mum probably ended their friendship for a good reason, and good riddance.  Why would she wanted to be friends with someone like _him_?’ His words, even in his own mind, lacked any bite. His curiosity was far stronger than his desire to be angry.  He needed to know.

 

Before Harry could dissuade himself from his course of actions, he rounded one of the corners, removed his invisibility cloak, and transformed into Lilian.  As Snape came back into view, Harry saw that man's posture was unchanged, pressed down by his own hopelessness, but Snape caught sight of feet, and the hem of school robes, and slowly lifted his head.

 

 “Lily?”

 

How could a voice of such honeyed smoothness come out as a croak?  It made Harry feel like he was somehow breaking the other man, but instead of a dizzying sense of power and possibility, he felt revolted.  It wasn’t his power.  It wasn’t even Lilian’s power.  It was Lily’s.  His mother had this power over Snape.  And it occurred to Harry that she could destroy Snape, if she wanted.  Would his mother have wanted to do so?

 

 “I’m sorry -” Snape’s words sounded like part of a litany, something thought and spoken more times than Harry could count, could imagine, and as discomfiting as it was to hear _this_ man apologizing, the words were well-worn.  

 

And yet, Harry had to know, even if his ignorance exposed him.  “For what.”

 

 “For everything!” Why did all of Snape’s words sound like they were rending him apart? “For calling you a mudblood.  For - for your death -”

 

The blood had already left Harry’s (Lilian’s) face at the word ‘mudblood.’  But death?  “Death?”

 

Snape groaned, an almost animal-like sound of unrelieved anguish. “The prophecy - it was I who told the Dark Lord -” The words were scarce more than a whisper, but Harry heard as clearly as if Snape had shouted. “It was because of me that the Dark Lord -”

 

It was too much.  Too much for Snape, and too much for Harry, and as much as he had wanted to sate to his curiosity, he hadn't realized that the knowledge might be so utterly crushing.  He couldn't think while he was here, staring down at a man who was breaking in front of him.  He couldn't think when his faded anger resurfaced at full force, and his hand was already gripped around his wand, desperate to curse Snape to pieces, to make him _suffer_.  His mother was dead because of Snape?  Everything in him screamed for vengeance, everything in him wanted to strike this man low, lower than he already was, grounding him to dirt, to dust.

 

Harry didn't know how he did it, but somehow he backed away, and then he was running, though to where, he didn't know.  All he knew was that he needed to be far away from Snape, as far as he could go, somewhere where he could be alone to think.  Someplace where he could crumble without anyone to see.

 

-o-

 

There are moments in life when one feels that they have learned too much, seen too much, and Harry felt as if he had reached that point. He did not regret having knowledge, but that didn't make it any less painful to know.  And as with everything else related to his mother and Snape, he had more questions than ever, only now, he realized that answers weren't harmless things, that words and knowledge could slice as deeply as any blade.

 

He still hadn't said a word to either Ron or Hermione, and though he believed he would have their support, this was too personal to share.  He didn't care about Snape's privacy, not anymore, but he cared about his mother’s, his own.  And as for the mysterious prophecy, he doubted that his friends would know.

 

He wrote another letter to Sirius, and found himself back in the library (“I've got to learn everything I can for the Triwizard Tournament, Hermione.  No, I don’t need help right now, thanks.  Yes, m’fine.  S’just stress from the Second Task.”) Unfortunately, the books offered no answers, making no mention at all about any prophecies.

 

Snape's behaviour changed yet again, so that the Potions Professor was more vicious than ever, taking points and giving detentions for the smallest infractions.  The Gryffindors were once again abound with theories, but Harry only listened with half an ear.  He didn't need to witness Snape excoriating his students to think the worst of the man.

 

 “I was right!” Ron had moaned. “He was just trying to lower our guard so that when he was back to his evil self, it’d be worse than ever!”

 

 “Honestly, Ron!  Don't be ridiculous!  If anything, the Slytherins probably noticed his change in behaviour, and now the professor feels like he has to overcompensate.  It’s not very professional though.”

 

 “Can we _not_ talk about Snape?” Harry had gritted out.

 

 “Of course _you_ wouldn't care,” Ron groused. “He leaves you alone, doesn’t he.”

 

It was true enough.  Snape treated all the other students with a remorseless verbal savagery, but still, Harry was ignored. And what might have given him peace a few short weeks ago, did nothing to assuage him now.  But even in his own misery, he knew that he didn't suffer alone.  Snape suffered.  Snape looked worse than Harry had ever seen him, cheeks hollowed, eyes like bruises, greasy hair thinning, and more than once, Harry could see the man’s hands quivering when he thought that no one noticed (and with the way everyone kept their eyes down, it was likely that no one did).

 

 ‘Good,’ Harry thought ruthlessly. ‘Good.  If anyone deserves to suffer, it’s him.’ But the thought brought Harry no peace. What peace could be found when his mother was dead because of Snape?

 

Sirius finally wrote him back, confirming that there was indeed a prophecy, but Sirius hadn't known what the prophecy contained.  It had been a dangerous time, the last Wizarding War, and no one knew who to trust. _Ask Dumbledore_ , Sirius had wrote.  But asking Dumbledore meant revealing how Harry had learned about the prophecy, and he wasn't sure he was ready to do that.  Besides, if Dumbledore already knew, how could he keep something like this from Harry? What other secrets remained hidden from him? This world of magic and wonder was becoming ever more tarnished, and though he had known since first year that his life was dangerous, danger was still easier to accept than these feelings of betrayal.

 

 ‘Let Snape suffer.  Let him _die_.’ Maybe he was already was dying.

 

-o-

 

There were still nights when Harry would wake up while the rest of the castle slept, and he would find himself pulling out the Marauder's Map to check for a certain dot. His eyes would follow the stretches of corridor, past the Astronomy Tower, past the Bell towers, and there at the base of the North Tower, Severus Snape would wait for _her_.

 

But she would not come.  Not for him.

 

-o-

 

Too many nights spent trying to learn the habits of Snape had a ruined Harry’s own circadian rhythms. The very real stress he felt over the Triwizard Tournament, as well as his nightmares of Voldemort did nothing to ease his agitated mind and body.

 

Snape wasn't the only one who needed movement to bleed out those dark energies, those perturbed thoughts that sunk curving claws into one's psyche.  Draped in his invisibility cloak, Harry would slip out of the Gryffindor common room, haunting the corridors and stairways like a wraith.  He deliberately avoided the sections of the castle that he knew Snape frequented.  It was bad enough to have to see that ugly, loathsome face in classes and during meals.  He had no desire to subject himself further, to silently name the things he wanted to do to the man ( _Crucio!  Avada Kedavra!_ )

 

But Harry did not always give thought to where his feet took him.  One moment, he was passing a statue of a trident-bearing merperson.  The next, he was at the base of the North Tower, and there _he_ was, the one person in the world that Harry might have hated even more than he hated Voldemort.  Snape was once again sitting at the stairs, only this time, he was angled sideways, his back leaning against the wall, but instead of looking casual like the pose suggested, he looked drained, as if the wall was necessary to support the weight of his bones.  And in truth, the man looked ghastly, the torch light casting skeletal shadows on his face, his gnarled hands.

 

Harry felt no sympathy.  His wand was already in his hands, and unthinkingly, he had already transformed into Lilian, though he remained obscured by the invisibility cloak.

 

He stalked up to the professor, disembodied voice hissing: “You’re sorry?  Sorry?!  Sorry won’t -” he was about to say ‘bring her back,’ but he clamped down on the words.  “Sorry won’t bring me back.”

 

Snape began to tremble, and even under the thick professor’s robes, it was clear to see.  “Lily,” he said, the words dragging with cruel friction.

 

 “Do you think you deserve forgiveness?  For what you’ve done?” Oh, how he seethed.

 

Snape’s head dropped forward, all repentance, all vanquishment.  “No,” he whispered.  “No.  I _know_ I don’t deserve to be forgiven.  I cannot forgive myself, and I won’t for as long as I live.  I would give anything - everything - to have you back.”

 

Harry’s nails cut into his palms, his own muscles quaking, and he could feel his heart in his throat, strangling him.  A helpless sound (not a sob, surely) came from his mouth, and his eyes burned with unshed tears.  He couldn’t bear this.  He had to leave.  

 

-o-

 

Thirteen years (give or take a few months).  That was how long Snape had been living with his regret, his sorrow.

 

 ‘It isn’t long enough,’ Harry thought. He felt no satisfaction.

 

-o-

 

Thirteen years (give or take a few months).  No amount of remorse could bring his mother back.  She was gone, gone forever.

 

Harry hadn’t even really known her.  Not really.

 

Thirteen years was a long time to suffer.  Thirteen years could leave a man as little more than a husk.

 

Snape had said that Harry was nothing like his mother.  Was it true?  Was the only trace of her left behind something so superficial as his eyes?  The lingering protective magic she granted him?  Was he so shallow a legacy?

 

What would Lily have done?  Harry didn’t know her.  He could acknowledge that much.

 

Would Lily have sat and watched while Snape withered away?  These days, Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t twinkle when he looked at Snape.  Harry wasn’t sure why he noticed.

 

Lily was a person who loved.  Her strength was her capacity to love.  Her love protected him.  Did Harry have that much love in his own heart?  Even for those that hurt him the most?

 

-o-

 

He was studying the Marauder's Map again, watching that solitary dot, scenario after scenario playing out in his mind.  He would read that abhorrent name, whispering every curse that he knew.  He could vividly picture the brutal effects, the North Tower steps staining with black blood, filling the air with its coppery scent.  He played out every dark fantasy, until he felt hollowness instead of longing.  He played out every fantasy until he started to think of what would come after. A path of emptiness, a heart scraped out.

 

He began to see, to slowly admit, at least to himself, that no punishment he inflicted upon Snape would be worse than what Snape was already doing to himself, dragging himself doggedly towards death. Would Lily have been satisfied?

 

-o-

 

Harry found himself back at the base of the North Tower, in Lilian’s - in Lily’s - skin.  He wasn’t certain of what he was doing.  His instincts more than his mind guided him. He knew that Snape would already be there. He knew that what he was doing had nothing to do with saving the man's life.  After all, Snape was Dumbledore's man, and Dumbledore wouldn't let Snape die, even if he had to force-feed him, even if he had to resort to other means to keep the man's body healthy, as healthy as it could be, while Snape’s heart bled itself dry.

 

Snape might have a layer of flesh over his bones, but he had eyes of a dead man.  He was, once again, sitting with his elbows on his knees, obsidian eyes pinned to some point on the stone floors.

 

 “Severus.” The name slipped out before Harry could think, a susurrus that hung between them, coiling like smoke.

 

Snape lifted his head, and everything he had done in his past was marked on his face, and everything Lily had done in the past was seared in his eyes, and Harry realized then that Snape had suffered enough.  He was as sure of it as he was of who he was, and he suddenly _knew_ that he had more of his mother than just his eyes.  She was in him, an inextricable part of who he was.

 

Snape couldn’t meet his - her - eyes.  “Lily.  You came back.” His head was bowed, awaiting punishment, awaiting condemnation, not even steeling himself for it.

 

Here was a man already in hell, and it was Lily who had the power to keep him there forever.  

 

What would Lily do.

 

What would Harry do.  

 

'Love is the strongest power there is.'  Where had he heard that?  Were they his mother’s words?  Dumbledore’s? 

 

 “Severus.” It wasn’t strange to hear his name with her voice.

 

Snape looked up at him - her - then.  Here was a man completely devoid of hope, who could not stop himself from responding to her call.

 

Lily was gone forever, but she still lived in Harry, and through Harry.  And he didn’t know who spoke, when he spoke, but did it matter?  It wasn’t in his heart to carry hate, and it wasn’t in hers either.  He felt this to be true.  “I forgive you.”

 

Disbelief.  “Lily?”

 

 “I forgive you.”

 

Harry couldn’t bear to look upon the other man’s face and see the disbelief there, the bald astonishment.  He couldn’t bear to meet those eyes and see another man’s soul flayed open.  He turned away, steps hurried, as Snape called out: “Wait!” voice hoarse, and achingly desperate.  Snape’s hand stretched out, as if needing to know if the person before him was a tangible being, was more than just the product of a guilt-ridden mind, but he met with only the caress of air from the swirl of robes.

 

Harry was already rounding the corner as he whispered: “Good bye.”

 

Lily was gone, Lilian was gone.  And Harry’s heart was as heavy as it was light, but he wasn’t alone.   _She_ was with him, and she would be with him, always, in the hard road to come.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Love is the strongest power there is.' - J.K. Rowling


End file.
